Long Replay Poems
Long Replay Poems. Below are the most popular long Replay by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Replay poems by poem length and keyword.
Being Alive
Miracle Man
1/1/2025
On January first of two thousand seventeen,
God reclaimed me from death’s certain throes.
Three days prior it was “The Widow Maker’s” scene,
with Sudden Cardiac Arrest both lay apposed.
Now, I celebrate New Years Day for being alive,
I was only the vessel that brought glory to HIM.
Memory of twenty three hospital days I revive,
drinking from a cup always filled to the brim.
The doctors had said they couldn’t explain it,
that a miracle took place in my life that day.
So with ink this day my testimony I transmit,
now eight years later my mind chooses to replay.
First the “Widow Maker” then Sudden Cardiac Arrest,
Each New Years Day I celebrate life and this test.
Flitting in a distant flash,
a fleeting glimpse, seen far off for a second
is all it takes to shutter a flutter in memory banks.
To trigger recall, perhaps a deja vu replay brief.
Our mind constantly trawls
for associations in the swirls of a crystal ball
in every scene and furtive glance we see.
Nothing is a new release, a gala opening night.
All we see are shorts and replays,
snippets of this scene linked with that,
bits of past mixed up with present,
left-overs mixed with anti pasta.
How nice it would be to have
memories wiped clean like as hard disk crash
to see everything new again, untainted by recall.
To be able to switch memories off and on at will.
To choose what and when we want to be reminded.
To choose when we simply want to sip up the new with a straw.
To taste the scene devoid of context,
immune from concomitance.
As I look upward at the wooden door labeled 'My Demise',
I clearly see thirty-nine wooden steps on the rise.
Each step takes a minute to grasp what I'll leave behind,
With many memories and thoughts, to recall and unwind.
There are just sixty seconds to replay each precious step from my past.
Joys and sorrows, loves and losses, with sobs and laughter broadcast.
The first memories of childhood, growing up with family and friends.
Each a fleeting echo, highlighted in a telephoto lens.
Each step a treasure that soothes my weary flaying soul.
Building like a jig-saw puzzle to make the picture whole.
I'm like an old film editor, cutting and selecting,
The scenes of my life, beloved and cherished, collecting.
At the top of the stairs with thirty-nine stairs lies the door.
As I grab the handle I know: "Time's up!" "There's no more!"
Encased in an isolated castle of an old fool’s paradise,
A decaying dagger rests upon a distressed oak table.
Frayed book pages scatter across termite-riddled floors.
The calligraphy carries echoes of triumphant battles,
Vividly etched in ink.
A revered legacy is forgotten in decades of decay,
Its inked glory fading into disarray.
Reminiscing of bygone days when youth was a sturdy partner at my behest,
Now weathered crimson dahlias adorn the windowsills
Of a desolate dynasty,
As the last petal falls.
Echoes of faded footsteps can be heard within the empty halls of waste.
What remains is a golden crown with sanguine marquise
Resting heavily upon an exile’s head.
How do I conquer the bloodstained fear trickling within the fractals,
Reflecting off the scorching sun that swallows flames,
Swirling around the ashen pyre
Of the poetic corpses I’ve slain for validation?
An inquisition paints a vicious vermilion
Within the sobbing stained glass.
The once-perfect porcelain flesh of our legacy is flayed,
Surrounded by the whispers of forgotten souls.
Cobwebs drape over shattered dreams,
As beams of light punctuate looming shadows.
Concealed beneath cold stone lies the family crypt,
Patiently awaiting its reluctant visitor,
Beckoning the exalt through clandestine corridors.
Within the hushed chamber of undying slumber,
He recalls the tragic tale.
Before him stand his beloved wife and children,
Forever ensnared in the clutches of eternal sleep.
Echoes of the past replay like eerie shadows,
Retelling the grim chronicle of their demise.
His envious, wrathful younger brother succumbed
To the greed of his own ambition.
In the darkness hour of that dreadful night, the dagger-wielding usurper
Plunged their existence into oblivion,
Casting spirits of suppressed speeches to weep
Within wailing walls.
Now I am the cerulean dusk of the gloaming,
A burnt-out waxen ivory,
The candle before their tombstone.
With your winds that screech
Wild so wild your winds and words rip the curtains
Stretching to reach me in the dark with fingers
that entangle my hair
Tornado
Rip the furnace from the floor of my basement
your teasing tornado desires
You want me now?!
You have no right to be here
Yet you come
Tearing the shingles from my siding
Ripping the siding from my sacred walls
You tear down the columns
and pull apart the shutters
Can you not respect the building of canyons?
These are my walls
Who are you to ask the grand canyon to do anything but be magestistic
If you had never put your head to mine
Had you never remembered how I slip in like silver
beside you
Had I never silkened your body
as you silkened mine
We could forget
Be left feeling nothing...
But
Like an album scracted
We replay...even after the console has been donated
We are ghosts..making love in the ether
I want to forget you
But you replay
and I stagger and tear...every time I think of you
and
I do think of you
Over and over again
I am a record album with a scratch
Circling back
Round and round
to the time you said
This must be a slow burn kind of
Love
We no longer fall in love
we update our availability.
Our hearts
wait behind green dots,
typing bubbles,
and the terrible silence
that follows “Seen.”
Every swipe
is a tiny funeral
for someone’s ordinary face,
a silent prayer
that perfection exists
one profile further.
We have learned
to flirt without trembling,
to desire without knowing,
to leave
without ever arriving.
How strange?
that a century
which can map the stars
cannot teach two lonely people
how to remain.
The algorithms know
which mouth I may kiss,
which song I may replay,
which body will make me pause—
yet they have never discovered
why the soul chooses
one impossible person
and calls it home.
Love has become
a marketplace of options.
The more choices we gather,
the less courage we possess.
Commitment now
is treated
like outdated software—
always postponed,
waiting
for the next update.
So we edit ourselves.
We crop our grief,
filter our scars,
soften our anger,
brighten our smiles,
until even the mirror
fails to recognize
its own witness.
Then we wonder
why no one
falls in love
with who we truly are.
Perhaps
the greatest loneliness
of the digital age
is not that we speak
through screens—
it is that
we have become
screens ourselves:
smooth,
illuminated,
touch-sensitive—
and impossible
to truly touch.
One day
history will not ask
how many matches we made.
It will ask
how many souls
we dared to meet
without a password,
without a performance,
without fear.
Because love
was never waiting
at the end of a notification.
It has always been
the frightening miracle
of placing
an unedited heart
into another human hand—
and staying,
even when
the signal disappears.
my endless void of grief breathes pain
no light, no hope, no peace, no gain
just aching hollow uncontained
my memories unspoken
on replay always broken
adrift upon a glassy sea
of nothingness, a nowhere me
sedated by my apathy
a shell, a husk, no feeling
a ghostly past comes stealing
a whisper sighs within the haze
a truth sublime begins to blaze
life can be better than this phase
The mirror starts to splinter
An end for endless winter?
then breath returns somehow within
and pulse where none before had been
a hint of light past darkest sin
dim, unsure, yet brighter still
to heal a long broken will
the journey long, dark and bitter
yet beauty found amidst litter
grace and strength to become fitter
inner light, no surrender
heart unbroken but tender
;
You take my breath completely away
You mean the world to me, my love and
Only I have to gaze softly into your eyes
I rememb'r all the smiles upon your face
And when I'm sad I replay them in my mind
My heart savorin' every time I can't replace
Sometimes it seems I'm living just a dream
From which I don't want ever to wake up from
And when you're far 'way I just want to scream
'Cause life without you can never be the same
Love runs wild thru my veins like a roarin' fire
And my skin burns recurring just your name.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2008
October,19,2014
LOST IN MY LOSSES
Losses upon losses
My losses lost me
I lost them all
Now, I have nothing else to loose
I only wonder who will lose me now
If only I get lost like my losses
But, I’m not chasing after my losses
But, should I lose myself enduring my losses?
Let it be counted as collateral damage
The pains alone have inflicted enough damage.
My comforters comforted as always
Yet, none gave me comfort in anyway
I got tired of the replay; I lost my way too
I need directions; my mind is blind to them
I can’t see that I couldn’t see; lost my mind too
Voices in my head rendering multiple messages
I’m trying hard to understand them; yet my mind remains lost
I’m talking to myself but still can’t hear myself
It’s not strange that all these strange things made me strange
In conclusion, I got lost in my losses.
Lordvip
It was first and goal with time running out
And the home team needed to score.
I sat on a barstool glued to the screen
Till I saw you walk through the door.
I missed the final seconds and the replay, too.
Gave it up for a chance to flirt.
You focused my attention on a brand new game
By wearing dark stockings and a slit skirt.
Dark stockings and a slit skirt,
It’s all I’ve got on my mind.
Dark stockings and a slit skirt,
The really expensive kind.
I’m tired of always watching from the sidelines.
I know a little workout wouldn’t hurt.
You’ve got me motivated for some one-on-one.
You’re wearing dark stockings and a slit skirt.
You could make me take my eye off the ball
When the count is three and two.
Might be top of the ninth with a runner on third,
I’d be busy looking at you.
But I’ll round those bases, make a diving slide,
Then just smile and brush off the dirt.
I’ll score the winning run, but you’ll earn MVP
By wearing dark stockings and a slit skirt.
Dark stockings and a slit skirt,
It may be a worn cliché.
Dark stockings and a slit skirt,
But baby, I came to play.
I’m finished with the pre-game and the warm up.
The perspiration’s showing through my shirt.
I’m ready for some action and I’m in the zone.
You’re wearing dark stockings and a slit skirt.